


headlock

by naveed



Category: EastEnders (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Emotional Constipation, M/M, Motels, Running Away, Things Going Wrong, because i love my life, maybe idk but i like that phrase, murder boyfriends, set after phil's oops upside the head!, slow descent into chaos, soft moments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-24
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2020-09-26 00:11:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20380444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naveed/pseuds/naveed
Summary: Ben has one quick solution for everything: find the problem; eradicate it; then burn the evidence. And Callum, he has a problem.or, the Kill Bald Men murder!boyfriends fic where ben has everything planned to a t, until he doesn't.





	1. the problem

**Author's Note:**

> OKAY i haven't written a chaptered fic for 3 years but i've had this one brewing for a while and when life gives you means, make an end. if we get that far. which we will! and lemons and lemonade. hope you enjoy. love from bobbybeales.tumblr.com and @willsharpes on twitter.

Too much is always happening at once. No one ever gets time to think.

Lying on his back in the grass, Ben closes his eyes. He breathes in deeply, hands linked across his middle rising as his torso tenses. The cold air feels isolated inside his lungs, the rest of his warm body untouched by the coolness, all snugly insulated in his skin. Blood pumps around his insides, and he’s so still he can feel it. It whooshes through his ears like cars on an empty road. On the outside, he wears a thin jacket over his t-shirt. The air is only cold by comparison.

He opens his eyes, but the world looks the same. At this time of year, there’s a short while late at night where the streetlights turn off, but the world is still dark. Ben came to the park in the last few minutes of blue light, hovering around the bench for a moment, before lying in the grass. Now it’s dark. Nothing happens for a bit. It gives him time to think.

A few miles away, his dad lies similarly in a hospital bed. He is still doused in blue light. He can’t see it.

Naturally – _naturally_, of course – Ben, among his neighbours, is suspect number one. The troubled son and the neglectful father; either way, one was bound to kill the other. Phil fucks up and Ben gets angry. Not like it hasn’t happened before, as his sister helpfully pointed out. And what’s worse is, he feels like he can’t even blame them. Just look at him – look at _them_. Of course it would be Ben to do something like that. To be honest, this has Ben written all over it, and they’re not even far from the truth. But their suspicions still go straight to him – and that stings.

A few minutes away, in the other direction, Callum Highway is lying in bed with his fiancée. They get married in three weeks.

He hopes that Callum doesn’t think it was him. It’s an unwanted feeling, but it’s there nonetheless. His family can think it was him. The Taylors can; and the rest of the square can pass their gossip around the markets. But Callum, he doesn’t get this kind of trouble. He’s pure. And he’s seen a side to Ben not many people have seen.

Ben called it off. But he knows what there is between them – vulnerability – and even when he tries to push it out of his mind, he knows he can go back to him.

He doesn’t know Callum is waiting.

One streetlight flickers back on. The rustling trees are outlined with a white glow and, with a heavy sigh, Ben stands up and goes home.

-

Callum’s dad, he’s been texting him and Stuart asking about plans for the wedding. Callum, well, he’s not really the right person to ask about that. Whitney is the one with all the plans. She knows what’s happening. Callum is just in it for the ride.

His dad, he texts him intermittently through the days. Handling the responsibility well? he asks. Any stag plans? Keeping her happy? Callum doesn’t reply. He gets a text from Stuart: dad’s asking me to ask you to ask him back. No, Callum replies, don’t entertain him. Because that’s what he does. He weasels his way back in, acting like he was never cruel, never violent. He plays nice just enough for you to trust him again, just the tiniest amount. You invite him back in – maybe it’s different this time – and then it’s not. You ask yourself why you’re still surprised. And then you’re not.

He’s sat in the café when the next influx comes. Callum puts his phone down on the table and lets it buzz.

“Someone’s popular,” comes a mutter from the counter. When he looks up, Callum meets eyes with Ben, who’s watching him with apprehension. His eyes are sunken and his cheeks are pink. Callum has been counting the days they haven’t spoken to each other.

“It’s my dad,” he tells him. “On my case about the wedding. Can’t accept that I don’t want him there.”

“Ah, well, who would?” Ben nods, what could have been a shred of empathy heavily coated in tired sarcasm.

Callum feels himself go heavy as his phone buzzes again. “I could just kill him sometimes.”

Ben raises his eyebrows. “Careful,” he chuckles, walking over to his table, “remember who you’re speaking to.”

Callum rubs his face, frustrated. “2301,” he says, pulling his cheeks as he looks back up at Ben. “2301,” he repeats, gesturing to his phone. “You read them, tell me how bad it is.”

Ben hesitates for a moment, reading his face for any signs of hostility. When all he gets is an honest, trusting openness, he pulls out the chair opposite him and sits down. 2301, he taps into Callum’s phone, and swipes open the messages. Maybe it was that easy after all.

Jonno is asking if he fancies a drink in Hackney. He’s asking what time he clocks off tomorrow, and if he could see a photo of him in his wedding suit. Ben scrolls up a bit further than today, and reads countless other messages asking how the bride is, when he’s free, if he’s had any second thoughts. Not once has Callum replied.

Ben huffs as he peeks back up at Callum. “It’s pretty bad.”

Callum groans, leaning forward with his head in his hands. “I am _this_ close to blocking his number,” he grumbles. “I’m not even exaggerating.”

“Do it,” Ben shrugs, chucking the phone back onto the table perhaps a little harshly. “What’s he gonna do?”

Callum looks up at him with widened eyes. “Uh, I dunno, come down here and ask me personally? I wouldn’t put it past him.”

Ben rolls his shoulders and leans back, regaining some confidence. Genuine confidence, rather than a fake front. Ease. “Well,” he smirks, “good thing you’ve got me for a bodyguard then, ain’t it?”

Callum laughs lightly. The little bounce of his shoulders washes Ben with relief.

Sliding his phone back inside his blazer, Callum sighs. Ben watches him, not judging, but they sit long enough in silence for the slightest unease to creep back up again. Don’t push it, Ben thinks to himself.

“Right –“

“Your dad,” Callum interrupts him as he’s on his way to stand up. Ben falters and lowers himself back into the chair. Callum drops eye contact, looking like he’s struggling to find the right thing to say. “I... I know it weren’t you.”

Ben’s chest tightens. “Yeah?” he whispers.

“Yeah,” Callum nods, swallowing hard. “I know everyone else does but... I don’t. So... yeah. Just so you know.”

Ben is unable to help it, and gives him a small, shy smile. “Thanks.”

He means it. He knows Ben would be capable of that, and he knows he’s the minority in believing it – but he means what he says. There’s just something in his gut. And, well, Callum’s never really trusted his gut before, but he does now. He’s just not sure why.

“I best get going,” Callum says now, as the palms of his hands threaten to clam up. “I’ve fobbed Jay off enough as it is these last few days.”

“Yeah,” Ben looks away, staying in his seat as Callum heads off to the side of the table. “I mean it though,” he calls, and Callum turns back around curiously. Ben raises two hands and punches his palm, exaggerating a cockney accent as he says; “if he needs sortin’ out.”

Callum gives him a tight smile. Ben gives him one back, reassuringly (hopefully). Then Callum leaves, and he looks back down at his lap. Don’t push it.

-

Certain things, Ben jokes about, and Callum never really knows if he’s serious or not. Murder is one of them.

He knows Ben has killed – everyone does – but he also knows that he was young, and angry, and it was (probably) an accident. Fundamentally, the same thing happened to Bobby. People are a lot quicker to accept him, however, than Ben. Callum thinks that’s unfair. Then he remembers Bobby doesn’t quite have the extended history of crime that Ben does, and how that probably excuses him.

Ben makes jokes about killing Jonno. Then he turns around and denies involvement in the attack on his dad. All things considered, Callum _should_ be suspicious like everyone else. But he’s not. He believes Ben. And to extent, he’s right to. He didn’t do it. But, like he does best, he’s manipulating it. And then he makes another joke. And then Callum questions whether his morals have any logic to them at all.

They don’t. Ben sees Stuart and his blood boils.

“It’s gonna be great,” the older man says to his brother, almost like an order, “and our lousy excuse for a dad ain’t gonna ruin that, alright?”

Callum nods, running a finger around the brim of his pint. Ben, shoulders tense at the bar, tries not to look at them.

“I know,” Callum answers.

Stuart downs the rest of his pint. “And it’s good you’re not replying to him. One day he’ll get bored and realise his life’s a lot easier without us in it, just like he always has.”

Callum doesn’t know whether that’s comforting or not. “I know.”

Stuart’s glass hits the table a little too loudly. “Right, I’m gonna take a leak then head back,” he announces, “told the women of the house I’d cook.”

He claps Callum on the shoulder as he heads towards the toilets. It hurts every time he does that, but Callum never says. He just wishes sometimes that Stuart didn’t care about him as much as he does. The less people you have invested in you, the easier it is to fuck up.

Callum looks up when Ben’s bottle hits the bar just as loud as Stuart’s. Ben, he’s not looking at him, but at the toilet door.

He slides a fiver across the surface, pins it down with his bottle, then all but stomps away from his stool. He’s angry, provoked like a bull by little to nothing. He wants a fight, and, well, Stuart is just _there_, isn’t he? Again. The perfect contender, again. Those two don’t need a valid reason for fisticuffs. And if Ben wants a fight, he’ll get one.

Just as he reaches the door to the men’s, Callum grabs his wrist.

“Don’t.”

Ben turns around sharply, a look on his face that hits Callum with a wave of nausea. “Don’t what, go for a piss?”

“I ain’t stupid, Ben,” Callum hisses. Ben falters slightly. Callum lets go of his wrist, and doesn’t say anything else. He just stays, holding eye contact firmly, for once confident that he won’t back down until Ben does.

A small part of Ben wants his hand back on him. A small part, but a loud part. He looks back down at their hovering hands, then knocks their knuckles together. Callum’s looks down quickly in surprise; Ben scoffs.

“I was joking,” he snaps. “About your dad. Your family ain’t worth my time.”

Callum knew this. Or, he thinks he did. He doesn’t know how to respond. He just keeps on staring at Ben, face flooded with confusion, concern, and the tiniest hint of sympathy. That lost puppy look. He does it so well. And Ben doesn’t like the effect it has on him.

So he turns around, and he leaves the building.

Callum falls into the empty booth by the toilet door. He wishes – god, he wishes and wishes and wishes for all sorts – but he wishes Ben wasn’t so awfully hard to read. There’s a joke one moment, then a threat the next; and a friendly conversation one day gets overshadowed by rage not long after. He wishes he could just get inside his head, understand the thinking behind every action Ben takes. Sometimes it’s like he doesn’t even think at all. Other times, he seems to have every little detail planned out. Ben writes the script, and the world performs just how he wants it to.

Ben seems to have a get out of jail free card for everything. Regarding the threat to Jonno, it’s simply that he was joking. And he was, of course he was; Callum didn’t really doubt that at the time. But there’s a little voice in his head that says, maybe, it would have been better if he was serious.

Because along with his get-out card, Ben also has one quick solution for everything: find the problem; eradicate it; then burn the evidence. And Callum, he has a problem.


	2. the anger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "if i get feelings, gotta hide it  
if it's illegal i don't mind it"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ps chapters are not gonna take any quicker to write haha love to you all

“Well, at least there’s one decent parent between the two of us.”

Whitney comes out of the bedroom and flicks on the kettle. “That was Bianca,” she waves her phone at Callum; “she’s booked her train. Can’t make it for the hen, but she’ll be down first thing in the morning.”

If he’s honest, Callum had forgotten that there would be any other people at the wedding besides him and Whitney. An audience – that’s just what he needs. Like he isn’t performing enough every single day.

He makes a stock comment of approval, of mild interest. It’s like his brain has to remind him how humans normally react to good news. Process it, Callum – Bianca! Yes, that is good news. Well, bad news about the hen, but good that she’s booked it. Real shame about the hen. At least she can make it at all, though.

Yeah, that’s a response. His brain switches off again once he kisses her on the cheek. He needs a lie down.

His head, once again, is reeling with thoughts of Ben. Only this time, over all the other headaches caused by the man, it’s ten times worse. It’s louder, and there are more emotions, and now it’s not only Ben, but his dad and brother as well. This mess that spilled all over his life when they fell into each others’ arms one night, two glowing passions in the dark, it stays splattered across his mind. In fact, it’s getting worse.

Callum feels desperate. He feels lost. He feels confused, anxious, achy, lonely, and incredibly fucking tired. He closes his eyes. He doesn’t know how he feels.

(Ben, who is currently spreading his toast with strawberry jam, he feels affection. He’s come to terms with that.)

He rubs his eyes harshly and opens them to the pink walls. Inside this house, his life is completely different. The mess doesn’t exist here, not materially. It’s just him, the pink, and the woman he loves. He wants to get married in the living room and never go outside again.

Although, he also wants to get married in front of everybody on the planet, making sure they all know just how much he loves Whitney, and let the world and their peers soak up the effort he put into fabricating the perfect, young, domestic life.

Then his stomach threatens to bubble up his throat.

-

“Fuck off, then!” Ben screams down the road. “Don’t worry about me, mate! I’m sure you’ve got plenty of other cars to write off, ain’t ya!”

Ben kicks the door and swears out loud, before swinging it open and climbing back in. It’s not written off – he’s a mechanic and he knows that – but the bumper is hanging on by a screw, and one taillight has gone out. He slams the door so hard the car shakes, takes a deep breath, then punches the steering wheel.

Days like this, Ben wishes he was a smoker. Jay once told him that he needed better coping strategies; Ben told him to fuck off.

At least he knows not to drive when he’s angry. He stays in the hard shoulder for a few minutes, tense grip on the steering wheel gradually relaxing. He’s just about turn the ignition when his phone starts buzzing in his pocket.

It’s Callum. Ben answers it hesitantly.

“You alright?”

“Yeah,” Callum replies, aiming for chirpy but hitting weary. “Just wondered if you fancied a drink.”

Ben pauses. “A drink?”

“Just as mates.”

Ben is nearly confused. He leans back in his seat and drops his hand from the key. “Yeah, sure. I’m about 20 minutes away.”

“See you in 20 minutes, then.”

Ben hangs up and puts his phone down beside him. His fingers have stopped twitching, leg stopped bouncing, and his breathing has faded back into the unconscious of his body. Maybe he could do with a drink. Maybe he could do with Callum.

-

“So I’m stranded in the middle lane, bumper scraping along the road as I’m tryna pull over, and he’s following me ‘til we can pull over, then as soon as I get out and have a proper look the fucker just drives off again!”

Ben runs a finger around the rim of his pint, telling the story with more apathy than anger. Callum’s gaze is settled on his face, as the colour wobbles in and out of his cheeks and his eyes flit between the glass and the table. “Probably ain’t got insurance,” Callum offers, taking a sip of his own drink. Ben nods.

“It’ll catch up with him.”

Callum continues to stare at him. The pink tint in his cheeks has decided to stay, pooling under the slight greyness of his eyes. He’s rough-shaven, resulting in little red patches around his jaw; and as a result of the sun, a slight smattering of freckles is dotted across his nose.

Ben can feel his eyes on him, hence the flush in his cheeks. When he chances a coy glance upwards, Callum looks away.

Callum’s brain says, _here’s a fun way to dampen the mood_: “How’s your dad?”

Ben looks up again, and then they meet eyes. Callum doesn’t look like he wholeheartedly cares – he’s more curious than concerned. Like it’s just apathetic small talk. It’s polite to ask, but it’s not really Phil he’s thinking about. “He’s awake, actually,” Ben answers. “Stable, last I heard.”

“You’ve not been to see him?” Callum queries tentatively.

Ben shrugs and swirls his drink, depleted. “Don’t see the point.”

Callum decides not to question it – and yeah, his intuition was right, this has put a dampener on the mood. They nurse their drinks in silence, the circadian ambience of the Vic offering a sound comfort. Ben’s eyelids seem heavy, that rosy twinge spreading across his nose and down his cheeks. He seems small. Like a child. Sedated. 

Ben lets out a loud breath as he puts his glass down on the table. “And yours?” he asks, nearly catching Callum out with the way their eyes meet. “Any more texts?”

“Yeah,” Callum huffs, “he’s getting angry now, I can tell. Keeps trying to guilt-trip me.”

“Oh, yeah? Like how?”

Callum gets his phone out and slides it across the table. “Saying how he’s making an effort and everything, so the least I could do is make one back. You know,” an unlikely sarcasm takes over his tone, “cause he’s so good at making an effort all the time.”

Ben chuckles and takes his phone, tapping in the code Callum knew he’d remember. He likes those little flashes of a dark side that pop up in Callum every now and then.

Sure enough, Jonno’s relentless pandering shows no sign of letting up. He’s offering to make things up for last time. Ben feels bitter remembering it.

One text further up catches his eye. “Stuart’s your best man?”

Callum takes the phone off him. “No,” he replies quickly, turning off the screen and dropping it on a spare coaster. “No, he ain’t. Dad just don’t know that, obviously.”

Ben nods slowly. “Right,” he lets an unconvinced smirk creep across his face, “when’d you decide that, then?”

Callum looks up at him with the utmost sincerity. “The morning after Pride.”

Oh, so this is serious, now. There’s something in Callum’s expression. This caring, honest look in his eyes, that surprises Ben with how often he sees it. A look that says, _you thought I’d forgotten. But how could I?_

“Well, just don’t go asking me,” Ben chuckles awkwardly. Callum gives him a small smile.

Only now is Ben realising how much Callum actually cares about him. He seems to keep him in consideration, always in the little things. Maybe it’s just Callum’s selflessness – and Ben doesn’t always see it when it’s happening – but he always has Ben’s best interests at heart.

Callum downs the rest of his drink suddenly, and says to Ben, “do you want to go somewhere else?”

Ben shrugs. “Yeah.”

-

They walk through the square, making small talk through the markets until they reach the park. It’s getting later now, families with children long since gone home, only one or two dog walkers still around. The sun is just low enough to flicker through the trees, casting tiny specks of warmth into the cool shadow of the leaves. Ben and Callum wander around the edge, slower now, and allow themselves to think.

“Do you think you have anger issues?” Callum asks, half-joking, half-provoking.

Ben snorts. “Straight into the therapy, are we?”

Callum raises his hands defensively, but Ben cuts him off with a more relaxed laugh. Ben watches his feet scuff through the grass, kicking up dust. Callum watches his face. Sometimes, Ben is the stoniest, most unreadable face there is – but sometimes, he gives away more than he knows.

“No, I guess I used to,” Ben ponders, brain ticking over how to open up, or whether to at all. He supposes, in occasions like today, a bit of road rage is probably normal. But then, he supposes, there’s other occasions that weren’t so expected of a sixteen year old boy. “I lost it,” Ben rubs his face uncomfortably, “a lot. I’m better now, though.”

Callum raises his eyebrows. “Are you?”

Ben stops walking and turns to look at him. “You don’t believe me?”

Callum opens his mouth to reply, but ends up just making some vague, questioning noise, and shrugging with his whole torso. “Well,” he stutters, “the other day in the pub, I mean, you were raging like a bull at Stuart and he never even did nothing.”

Ben scrunches up his face. “He hasn’t done nothing, though, has he? I think I’m pretty entitled to be angry about what he has done. You know, beating me half to death after Pride, the endless threats that come after...”

“Yeah, alright, I get it,” Callum sighs, turning his back to a tree, and sitting on the ground.

At the root of it, Callum doesn’t like to face the bad things. Much like Ben’s burn-the-evidence approach to life, Callum thrives in avoidance. It’s the story of his life, really – something comes up that threatens normality, his routine. A spanner in the works. What does he do? Nothing. He just waits for it to go away.

Ben sits down beside him. “Your dad isn’t just gonna go away, you know.”

Callum looks up at him, startled. “How did you do that?”

“What?”

Callum’s face heats up. “Nothing.”

Ben picks the grass between his feet. “I know you don’t like it, necessarily, but I can... you know,” he picks a clump of weeds out of the ground. “Get rid of him.”

“Ben –”

“I know!” he says defensively, not looking at Callum’s face, not wanting to know if he’s as disappointed in him as he sounds. “I’m just saying, the – the offer’s there.”

Callum shakes his head with an affectionate chuckle. “Thanks.”

The only thing Ben has lied about to Callum is what he said that time in the pub. He told him that his family wasn’t worth his time. Truth is, they are, because Callum is. And, well, Callum’s problems are his problems. The only reason he didn’t go for Stuart, or for Jonno during their first altercation, was because he thought of Callum, what he’d think, and he didn’t want to make things worse.

But the longer he thinks about it, the more he wishes he did. Just for himself. Callum might not want him to – ahem, _take care_ of them – but really, it would be so much easier if he did. Those two men cause nothing but grief, and no matter how much Callum likes to ignore it, life would just be easier without them. Ben could say the same about his own dad.

So the anger, like stomach acid, starts to burn up inside him again.

“I think you should just let me.”

Callum furrows his brows. “Don’t get angry again.”

“Why aren’t _you_ angry?” Ben retorted. “I know you like to just pretend things are fine, but it’s not good for you. You need to fight back sometimes.”

“Yeah,” Callum concedes pointedly, “_I_ do, not you.”

“But you’re not _going_ to, are you Callum? You just let your own family walk all over you.”

Callum’s had enough of things that are too hard to hear. “What’s it to you, anyway?” he snaps.

Ben, his body stops for a second. He can’t respond, not immediately; he doesn’t have the words. What’s it to him? Is it not enough to just care about him? Is Callum really so unused to people caring about him? The two of them stay staring into each others’ eyes, studying each others’ faces, and Ben just thinks, _how do you still not get it?_

Callum’s face, taught and tense, gradually falls back into his usual, wide-eyed manner. Ben leans in swiftly, just quick enough for Callum to reflexively pull back, and he says; “what do you think?”

And Callum, he’s swept over by déjà vu. And Callum, he knows how the last conversation like this ended. In this very park. He settles forward again, noticeably close to Ben, again. Ben’s face is hard and cold, but his eyes are begging for a sign. Just one, little sign, that everything didn’t mean nothing. Callum’s tongue flits between his lips, and his gaze flickers across all different parts of Ben’s face. The desperation is beginning to leak through the anger in his expression. Callum looks back into his eyes, and whispers, “don’t make this about us.”

Us. Ben wants to laugh in his face. “What else would it be about?”

Ben loves people by protecting them. He doesn’t know what else to do.

Neither of them noticed the sun disappear. The golden light of the evening and the white glow of the streetlights had blurred into one liminal atmosphere. Callum considers closing the gap between them. Ben considers it too.

But Callum, he stands up instead, and suddenly without another body beside him, Ben feels exposed.

“You can kill my dad if you want,” Callum says apathetically. “I don’t own you.”

Ben closes his eyes and hangs his head, listening to the soft footsteps that leave him on his own. He breathes heavily, and just while he can still hear Callum, he calls out, “I’d never do anything you don’t want me to.”

Callum turns around. Ben slowly lifts his head, visibly tired, but still exuding that confidence, that power, that makes him even more of an enigma, and Callum just wants to get his hands on him and crack him open.

But his heart is beating fire around his body, and his head is full of the smoke. So, with a quivering lip and restless hands, he turns and walks away.


	3. the noise

Late one night in their separate houses, Callum calls Ben with shaking hands. They haven’t spoken for four days.

“Listen,” he says, voice low on the line. “I’m still not talking to you. But if you were asking for my permission or something... you have it. I – I’m giving you permission.”

“Permission?” Ben croaks through his sleepy throat. “Are you talking about your dad?”

Callum inhales sharply. “Don’t make me think any harder about this, okay?”

And he hangs up.

-

Ultimately, Ben doesn’t live for much. He lives to get his way – to come up with something he wants, and achieve it. When he does, he finds something else to want. If he doesn’t, well, it keeps him going.

Ben likes adrenaline. He likes the excitement, and he gets it from two things; having sex, and starting fights.

Most people would say sex is easier to find than a fight, but for Ben, it breaks pretty even. An app and a text is all it takes to get him a bed for the night. One mouthy comment to the bloke at the bar who’s been giving him eyes all evening, and he eats or gets eaten. Either way, he comes out of it better, because he doesn’t care. The other guy goes home bruised and pissed off – Ben, he got want he wanted.

He doesn’t think of Lexi. Not because he doesn’t care, but because he can’t bring himself too. He’s alone on a night out; she’s safe with her mum. If he thinks any more about it, about how she’ll feel when she realises why her dad’s face always has a scab or two on it, he’ll just feel guilty. And guilt is not something Ben fares well with.

That’s why it’s easier to not have any.

He picks his phone off the passenger seat of his car and calls Callum.

“Ben?” he answers, as Ben puts him on speaker and drops him back on the seat. “Ben, it’s late, what you doing?”

“Oh, you know,” Ben replies, uncaring, “just driving around. Hackney area, if you’re familiar.”

Callum tenses, instinctively looking to check that his bedroom door is still closed, and Whitney can’t hear. “What you doing in Hackney?” he asks cautiously.

“Just driving,” Ben repeats. “What was the name of your dad’s local again? Dog o’ something?”

“Ben,” Callum hisses, “you ain’t doing anything stupid.”

“I ain’t,” Ben brakes harshly for a red light, “not while I’m still driving I ain’t.”

“And you ain’t once you get out, either,” Callum says, voice stern, but scratching nervously at his knee. “Don’t go winding yourself up picturing yourself battering my dad in a pub.”

“I thought you gave me permission,” Ben drawls sarcastically.

“Why did you even call me?”

Ben raises his eyebrows. He’s not denying it. He also doesn’t know the answer. “Just thought of you,” he says, supposing it’s honest. “Only fair you should be the first to know, if I were to end up doing something stupid.”

Callum watches his bedroom door. The film he told Whitney he was going to finish watching, it finished ten minutes before Ben called. Nothing in particular stopped him from joining her afterwards. He was just waiting to see if maybe, if he waited long enough, he wouldn’t have to go to bed. If he waited long enough, it would be morning. “I think you should come home.”

Late at night is when the ugly thoughts come out. Callum’s thoughts are telling him that if he climbs into bed now with the girl he promised to marry, he might be sick.

Ben’s thoughts tell him to take Jonno Highway to a very dark place and beat him, kick him, until his lungs collapse and his brain bleeds and his eyes fixate on something that’s not there. “Revoking your blessing, are we?” he answers, pulling up onto the kerb outside The Dog and Country.

“Ben,” Callum says again, quiet voice threatening to quiver with subdued stress, “just come home.”

The engine rumbles into silence as he pulls out the key. “We’ll see.”

-

It’s at this point that Callum starts to question Ben’s involvement in the attack on Phil. He questions when a joke ends and when things get real. He questions what makes him do it, to Jonno and Phil. Then, he questions whether he minds or not, and he’s not sure he really does.

-

He meant what he said. He’d never do anything Callum didn’t want him to.

Ben tunes into the silence as the white noise from the kettle fades away, bubbles calming into the flat surface of the water. He breathes in the steam from its spout and lets the vapour settle over his eyelids. A car rumbles past the living room window; the neighbours close their front door; the fridge hums. All of it extraneous. Ben opens his eyes and focuses on what’s important – a hot cup of coffee.

He likes having the house to himself. Normally the only place he can hear himself think is the car lot, but then he’s surrounded by work. In a quiet house, he feels more at peace. Relaxed. Sane again.

He doesn’t dwell on things such as Jonno, and his pointy face which appeared in the pub window last night. He doesn’t dwell on the way he laughed, wrinkling like a raisin being squished between two fingers. He doesn’t dwell on the two different ways his stomach twisted – once with anger, and once with something much, much worse.

The second twist was the one that came when he thought of Callum, and how he would feel if Ben had come home that night with blood on his hands. It was the one that came when he pictured his face, shocked, devastated, his loss and confusion all directed at Ben. And it was the one that made him turn the ignition and drive away.

Ben starts to brew his coffee. This feeling inside him, it’s getting more frequent. And every time he feels it, it’s worse than before. He knows what it is. Day after day, it consumes him.

A shadow appears on the floor, and the back door suddenly rattles. There’s a figure in the window – a tall, blurry figure – and Ben’s stomach twists tighter than ever as he quickly goes to open it.

“Tell me what you did,” Callum is frantic as he pushes Ben back into the kitchen. “Tell me,” he demands, “now.”

Ben has to catch his breath. His hands grip the counter behind him, and the thing that makes his stomach turn is the same as what keeps his eyes glued to Callum’s face. “Nothing,” he breathes. “I did nothing.”

“What do you mean you did nothing?” Callum spits, face tight and tense.

“I didn’t do it,” Ben looks him in the eyes with sincerity. Callum stops for a moment, gaze getting lost all over Ben’s face, trying to read him for answers. Then, like the drop of a penny, his face falls, and that trademark vulnerability washes back over him. 

Callum sighs, bringing up one hand to rub his face with. It’s then that Ben notices the bottle in the other hand, almost empty. “Why not?” he whispers.

Ben reaches out and holds the bottle. Callum looks down at their hands, then lets him take it. “You’re stressed,” he murmurs, “it wasn’t right.”

Callum looks up at him again. The closeness, that small gap between them polluted with alcoholic breath, it doesn’t bother him like before. It comforts him. And Ben’s words, they comfort him too. “You care about me,” he mutters, shaking his head and flitting his eyes between Ben the ground. “You care about me way too much, Ben.”

Ben chuckles, but it’s lined with bitterness. “I wouldn’t be stood here offering to kill your dad if I didn’t care about you, Callum.”

“I just don’t understand why.”

“I just told you why.”

Callum drops his head a bit, wanting to feel less like a tower over Ben. The back door, it finally hits the doorframe with an ever so gentle thud. Callum glances toward the noise. “Are you home alone right now?” he whispers.

“Yeah,” Ben nods. “What you thinking?”

Callum knows what he’s thinking. He’s thinking of grabbing his face in both hands and kissing the breath out of him.

“Not that,” he says.

Ben raises his eyebrows. “Well, you’re drunk anyway.”

“I’m not,” Callum squeezes his eyes shut. “That bottle, that’s all I’ve had.”

Ben leans back then, to raise the bottle between them. Callum tenses his shoulders and watches. “Well then,” Ben gestures up at him. “Cheers.”

He downs the rest of the beer. The eye contact, it’s getting too intense. Callum takes a step back as Ben puts the bottle on the counter.

The house is back to being silent. Ben likes it; Callum might go crazy. He loves it – _god,_ does he love it – when it’s just him and Ben. He loves to shut the world out, pretend that the two of them can exist together and only together; but it only lasts for as long as it takes his ears to start ringing, and then the noise, every noise on the planet, it all fills up his head at once. Callum doesn’t know what he’d do if he were to give in.

“I will do it,” Ben says, Callum not having noticed his eyes on him while his head fuzzed up. “And I know how. Don’t you worry about me getting it wrong.”

Callum shakes his head. “I never did.”

Ben smirks. “Tomorrow, then.”

“Are you inviting me?”

“Nah,” Ben chuckles, then shrugs. “Unless you wanna.”

Callum grimaces, but it fades into the smallest, softest of smiles. “We’ll see.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> basically i had to make this one short otherwise it would be 4k and chapter 4 would be like 800. technically i had this written ages ago just thought i was gonna stick the next chapter on the end so never posted it. sorry lol. ps i know the kitchen scene is similar to that kiss in the mitchells house but i actually wrote this way before then??? anyway ben said he'll kill jonno tomorrow, so that's a promise. see you then


	4. the headlock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is 2/3 as long as the entire fic so far. pacing is hard. wait, did you just say that while i was gone, canon ballum descended into domestic bliss? ben just called him his boyfriend for the first time? callum met PAM??? i'm not happy about that, boys. not happy at all

Among the head noise, Callum has mustered up two whole coherent thoughts these last few days. Thought one: he’s fine with his dad being dead. For years, he’s been running from his home life. From the army to Walford; shacking up with the Carters by means of replacement; it’s all to get away. He wants his dad gone. And one thing Callum has learned from being an undertaker is that dead people don’t come back (despite what Kathy Beale will tell you). So yes, he’s fine with it. It’s the only way to keep him gone for good.

Thought two: he likes Ben too much for his own good. And yes, he’s fine with that too. This noise in his head, he’s realised, doesn’t go away with force. You just have to let it ring.

Ben called him while on his way to Hackney. _You feeling okay?_ he had asked. _Yeah_, Callum replied, _are you?_

He is. Ben leans forward on the bar with both hands, eyes on Jonno at the dartboard.

"Old friend,” he says as the barman approaches him. "Buy him a drink from me, will ya? Just while I pop to the loo." The barman nods, reaching for a pint glass, but Ben puts his hand out to stop him. "No," he lowers his voice with a smirk. "Something stronger."

Callum never told him the details about his past. But Ben knows, because when you know what you’re looking for, it’s obvious. It’s in his past with the army. It’s in how he handles other people’s children. It’s in his relationship with his brother; how he hates him one minute and forgives him the next. All signs that Callum never, ever, wants to end up like his father. So Ben doesn’t ask for details – shit dads, they’re are all the same.

When he comes back, Jonno is sat at the bar with an empty glass. “Your mate’s pretty bladdered already – that little gift’s probably done him no favours,” the barman chuckles. Perfect, Ben thinks, as he stands up and takes the stool next to Jonno. Sometimes, it’s like he doesn’t have to try at all.

“Enjoy that?”

Jonno’s head snaps around so quick he could break his neck, taking less than five seconds for the recognition to hit him, and then, there it is; that snarling face of his, contorting with such vitriol and disgust that Ben can only feel excited.

“You,” Jonno spits.

Ben smirks. “Me.”

It’s funny, really, the different effects their fathers had on them. Jonno, outwardly venomous, all but forced Callum out of their home when he was barely an adult; now Callum is soft and kind, and what could be a hardened edge is so buried under fluffy blankets he can hardly feel it. And then there’s Phil – coldly, silently neglectful. And you can cover Ben in as many blankets as you like, but that fire inside him, it burns a hole through every one.

Ben knows he’s a live wire. He doesn’t want Callum to get burned.

“You’ve got some nerve showing up here,” Jonno shouts after Ben, stumbling down the step out of the pub. “You act like you own every pub you walk into, don’t you?”

“Nah,” Ben returns over his shoulder, leading him down the road. “Just the ones you’re in.”

“You just don’t know when to quit, do you?”

Ben laughs at the irony. “I’m not the one following a bloke down the street,” – he turns around then, and Jonno stumbles to a halt – “knowing it won’t end well for him.”

“Really,” Jonno scoffs, spit flying out under the streetlight. “And what’s a bloke like you gonna do to a bloke like me?”

Ben takes a step forward. He’s amazed, really, at how confident Jonno is. He’s just so _sure_ that Ben won’t hurt him. Won’t kill him.

Because he will. He really, _really_, fucking will.

“Well,” Ben cracks his neck. “I didn’t wanna do this here, but… since you asked for it.”

And then his hand, balled tightly into a rock hard fist, it shakes with tension travelling all down his arm and through his chest; and he pulls it back; and Jonno is either too drunk or too cocky to notice but as it comes tearing through the air, there’s a person behind him, two streetlights away, fading in and out of the darkness and the flickering light; just not quick enough for Ben to see. And then there’s two noises: Jonno hitting the ground with a loud groan and thud, and –

_“Ben!”_

Callum is _there_, wide eyes on Ben and not paying one mind to his father. He’s still got his work shirt on, with the top button undone and one collar upturned. His tired hair falls in thick strands over his forehead. Ben’s breath catches in his throat when he sees him – and his heart skips a beat at the _sight_ of him.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “Fuck, just – just keep walking.”

Ben takes Callum’s arm as soon as he’s close enough to reach. As they walk hurriedly away, Callum looks over his shoulder to his dad on the floor, and turns back to Ben, somewhere between frantic and confused. “What’s up with him?”

“What’s up with him,” Ben repeats with a disbelieving chuckle. “I’ve just socked him one in the street on my way to fucking kill him, that’s what’s up with him.”

“Oi!” Jonno shouts then, as he struggles back up to his feet. “Does someone wanna tell me what’s going on here?”

Callum, to Ben’s surprise, keeps his head down and keeps walking of his own accord. Ben points him around a corner. He’s still holding tightly onto his bicep. Part of him feels safer not letting go.

Jonno continues to shout, attempting to catch up with them, stumbling over himself as a result of the drink and the blow to the temple. Ben calls it the double whammy, because, well, he’s no stranger to it himself. In fact, the odd homophobic slur being thrown about just adds to that familiar mood. Jonno couldn’t be making it easier for him.

“It’s down here,” he says to Callum, as they make their way down a passage at the end of a terrace. Ben did his research – of course he did, it’s Hackney. You’d be lucky to find a half decent forest in any part of London. A few square metres of trees on the edge of town? It feels like a gift from God.

Ben drops his grip from Callum when they make it to the middle. In a way, he didn’t really want him to see this.

“Well, well, well,” Jonno slurs, oozing that sickening arrogance. “Don’t you two look cozy.”

Callum watches Ben’s shoulders rise with heavy breaths. He meets his eye. “Do you wanna tell him,” Ben still manages to joke; “or shall I?”

Callum looks back to his dad. For once in his life, he doesn’t feel small.

“I am done,” he says.

“With what?” Jonno replies.

“With you!” Callum takes a step forward. “Always putting me down, telling me who to be. Who I am. I am done with it, dad. I don’t care about you anymore.”

Jonno scoffs. “Hanging out with him got you thinking your hard, has it?”

Ben jumps forward. “You _really_ don’t wanna know, mate.”

Jonno comes towards him, and Callum falters ever so slightly until Ben reaches out to his stomach and pushes him gently backwards. He complies, and stands behind him.

“You don’t touch my son.”

Ben’s blood boils dormant in his veins. That odd calm is flooding over him – the one that comes before the storm. Although this storm could take out it’s victim in just one flash of lightning. And then it’s all over.

“Callum,” Ben calls, “a rock.”

Jonno squints. “A what?”

Callum, still frantic but no longer confused, heads to the wall of the alley and scours the floor.

“You know, I bet,” Jonno starts, all his words melting into one long noise, “I bet I could take you out in one – one go.”

Ben laughs shortly. “Could you?”

“I could,” Jonno points at him. “Poof like you.”

Ben raises his eyebrows and opens his arms. “Go on then.”

Jonno swings at him. It’s like his body is already getting weaker, right before Ben’s eyes, and he’s not even done anything yet.

“Come on,” Ben taunts, “that all you got? Can’t even take on a poof in a fight?”

Jonno swings again – okay, it’s a bit closer this time – but all Ben has to do is duck. If it wasn’t so laughably pathetic, Ben would be tempted to just beat him to death with his bare hands. But he’s even more tempted by not going to prison, so he stays patient.

Callum hisses his name from the wall. _A brick?_ he mouths.

“Yeah,” Ben nods, and Jonno looks behind him, startled, “just pick it up with your sleeve.”

Callum approaches them and hands Ben the brick, both of them with their jackets over their hands. Jonno stares up at Callum, then at Ben’s face, and then spits on the ground. They ignore him.

“Are you…” Ben gestures between them, then at Callum’s dad. “You gonna watch, or..?”

Callum shakes his head. “Just do it.”

"I don't wanna hurt you."

"You ain't," Callum says. "You couldn't. Go on."

He looks away. Jonno appears to be slipping under. Ben starts to feel like this whole ordeal has gone on too long. Like he’s starting to sober up. He stares at Jonno (who, if anything, is just becoming more intoxicated), and sees flashes of different people. He sees Stuart, raging like a bull at Ben for just existing. He sees Stella, the vicious and cruel. He sees his dad.

He sees Heather, and thinks how out of all the people he could have killed by now, she was the only one he didn’t want to.

He’s never had the nerve until now. Or maybe no cause was as worth it. Ben crashes the brick to Jonno’s skull, and it feels like he’s killing them all.

He didn’t notice that Jonno was shouting at him until it went quiet. His ears don’t even ring. The silence just surrounds him, and as soon as he sees that first trickle of blood, he feels different. He feels calmer, collected, his thoughts already flowing more coherently. The other faces disappear. They don’t matter anymore, and neither does he.

“Is that it?”

Ben looks over his shoulder to see Callum facing him. He watches carefully as Callum’s gaze slowly falls, tracing the outline of his father, slowly losing colour and heat. He’s thankful it’s dark.

“That’s it,” Ben tells him.

Callum feels hyper-aware and completely numb. Ben puts his hand on his shoulder, and he doesn’t even flinch.

“What now?” he finally asks. “Do we… do we move the body?”

Ben rubs his forehead. There’s a twisted gratification in hearing Callum talk like this. “No, the – the point of doing it here was so we don’t have to. You know, he’s not far from the pub, and the barman knew he was wasted. Just another drunk guy wiping himself out.”

Callum nods. “You know a lot about killing people.”

Ben chuckles. “There’s not much to know.”

Callum trusts him. He trusts him with his life.

“Why are you even here?”

He looks up. Ben’s brows are suddenly furrowed. He’s definitely sobering up. Callum opens his mouth, struggling to justify it even in his head, let alone out loud to Ben. He shrugs, avoiding his dad as he averts his eyes back down to his feet. “Didn’t want you to be alone, I guess.” 

Despite it all, Ben’s chest flutters a little. “How chivalrous,” he murmurs.

He didn’t think this far ahead. He certainly didn’t expect Callum to be here. He thought he could just go home, creep into bed with no questions asked and report back in the morning. But now, that will raise questions. And Callum will have to explain himself as well.

“Speaking of chivalry,” Ben starts. “What have you told Whitney?”

“Army mate,” Callum replies, oddly confident. “Personal crisis, you know. Needs some support.”

Ben raises his eyebrows, then chuckles disbelievingly. Callum narrows his eyes at him. “No,” Ben raises his hands defensively, “no, I’m impressed.”

Callum looks back at the ground. “Don’t be impressed.”

“So you’re excused for a few nights?”

Callum pretends he didn’t plan for that. “Yeah.”

“We should go find somewhere, then.”

Callum nods. “Okay.”

-

Motel television is uninspiring enough during the day, but the liminality of 4am teleshopping is another plane of depressing. A large, golden necklace, bejewelled with a pride of place ruby, has been slowly rotating on the screen for the last thirteen minutes. Every now and then it zooms out to a woman standing beside it, who reads out the phone number required to place a bid. She says it’s 16 carat. Occasionally, her dark brown hair will fall over the front of her shoulders. She combs it out the way with her hand, and juts out her chest.

“If I was straight,” Ben mumbles, leaning back on the bed with a sigh. The headboard creaks under his weight and the back of his head hits the wall above it. Callum looks at him from the hefty armchair.

“What?”

Ben raises an eyebrow. “You don’t think she’s fit?”

Callum glances back at the TV. The woman places one hand on her hip, like she knows they’re judging her. “She’s alright,” Callum shrugs.

Ben shakes his head. “Blimey,” he tuts, “you really are gay.”

The necklace sells for half a million pounds. Callum wonders what’s real and what’s not.

For an undertaker, Callum doesn’t actually encounter many dead bodies. That’s what Jay usually deals with; Callum handles the bereft and the admin. But there is the odd day (and Jay always checks if he’s okay with it) when an errand needs doing around a body. And there is the odd day among those odd days where it’s not pretty. Blood gets cleaned up and bruises get covered, but not every injury allows it. It stays with him.

Or rather, it stays with him, until he wakes up the next day. That’s the army.

When you think of army training, you think of the physical exertion, the early mornings, being shouted at then running until a stitch is the least of your pain. The real training, however, comes on the field. Your body is prepared, but there’s no way to prepare your head. Then you get hurt, and your friends get hurt, and your friends die. And that changes the most in you.

So you could say Callum is used to it. Which is why the shock wore off sometime along the car journey.

Things go on as normal until his dad is found. He hopes Ben is good enough at this – then he sort of doesn’t doubt it. There’s a weird comfort in the fact that Ben is very, very good at this.

He wonders how long it will take people to notice. His dad’s colleagues should be first, when he stops turning up. Stuart – he’ll probably be the last. That’s dad, he’ll say. Just disappearing again. Hopefully this time he doesn’t come back.

Callum thinks of Whitney. Then he tells himself not to.

“We can’t go back now, can we?”

Ben snaps his head over to where Callum remains, slumped in the threadbare armchair and picking at what’s left. His posture is like a skeleton preserved in a glass case. He’s not right. “What do you mean?”

“You and me,” Callum reiterates, something in his voice bitter. “We can’t go back to Walford. We can’t go back to... to how things were.”

Ben shakes his head dismissively. “We can. It’ll be easy, you wait.”

“No, it won’t,” Callum starts again, growing agitated as his voice becomes slightly raised. “My dad is dead, my fiancée doesn’t know where I am. All the while I’m stuck in this stupid, shitty motel room, with _you_, of all people.”

Ben raises his voice in return; “and what does that mean, exactly?”

“You!” his hand swipes the air in front of him, “you make everything worse for me, Ben.”

Ben can’t hold back a sharp laugh. “Do I?”

“We had a good thing going!”

_“Did we?”_ Ben shouts with a sarcastic bite. “Cause last I remember, you were about to swan off and get married to a woman, and I was the one left behind hating myself for falling for you!”

It’s then, _now,_ that Callum meets his eye. Ben is breathing heavily, shoulders rising and falling with his anger, until he eventually looks away, face burning up when the words floating in the air make their way back to him.

Callum doesn’t know what to say. All he knows is that he doesn’t want this to be happening, not now. He’s not ready to face this. To face Ben like this, or to face himself. “You ain’t.”

Ben huffs. He shakes his head, doesn’t reply; nor does he look up again.

“No, Ben,” Callum sounds panicked as he stands up out of his chair and walks over to the bed. “Don’t fall for me.”

Ben scoffs tiredly. “Bit late for that now, innit, Cal?”

Callum’s stomach is twisting and turning and his heart is beating so fast he might faint. His skin all over begins to itch, a restless anxiety flooding his sense in that he was just not _prepared_ for this. “This...” he tries, voice breaking out of a whisper. “This can’t go how you want it to.”

Ben, in a quick movement, he swings his legs over the side of the mattress and stands up straight in front of Callum. His neck cranes to look up to his face, intensely. His eyes are glazed with that cold hostility, but underneath it are pools of concern. “It won’t for you, either,” he says, somewhere between callousness and sympathy.

Callum’s top lip begins to quiver. He knows he’s right. “I don’t know what I want,” he confesses weakly.

That, it melts away Ben’s cover. They stay standing – close, closer – hands and clothes close to brushing but not; reading every little micro-expression cropping up over their features. Ben reads fear. Callum reads vulnerability. Then after a few long moments, they both read the same thing.

Ben feels things he can’t explain. He breathes in through his mouth, flits a nervous tongue over his lips and whispers, “I think you do.”

He does. Callum takes Ben’s face in his hands and kisses him like his life depends on it.

These feelings between them, and the blissful ignorance that came of them, it’s being taken apart bit by bit. They knew it was cracked for a while, chipped, threatening to shatter and cover their perfect lives in the razor sharp pieces. Now they just punch it with their bare hands until it falls apart.

So Ben kisses back, _god_, does he kiss back, with desperation and urgency and that sense of finally, finally, we’re where we belong.

There’s no pushing or pulling – they both fall onto the bed like there’s nowhere else to go. And really, there isn’t, because they can hardly keep themselves detached long enough for Callum to shuffle up the mattress, prop his shoulders up on the headboard and stretch his legs out like they’re just another sheet on the bed for Ben to climb all over. He kneels with his thighs spread either side of Callum’s, the tightness of his jeans suffocating his skin in a torturously pleasing way.

Callum’s shirt comes off first, purely by ease. Ben pulls away from their needy kisses just long enough to find the buttons on the cotton, and fumbles blindly until he can run his hands down Callum’s bare torso. Callum mirrors his actions, holding Ben’s hips with one huge hand, spreading his fingers up below his t-shirt, until Ben pulls the collar and Callum pushes the seam up over his head. One hand remains firmly tangled in Ben’s hair.

Ben straddles Callum’s hips until he’s impossibly close, skin flush against one another, burning up irresistibly. Callum is smooth in places, imperfect in others; Ben is rough and worn, but that softness is still there that makes him so touchable. Callum wants to hold him forever. Ben wants Callum all over him.

In an unexpected moment of clarity, Callum takes the initiative to open his legs, forcing Ben to pull back and slide onto the mattress between them. Callum instinctively fumbles with his belt, only getting it loose enough to slide off his hips and free the top of his boxers; Ben keenly caresses the skin underneath the waistband; and then the only thing left to do is to pull out Callum's cock, free from the constraints of stretched cotton and into the grasp of Ben's palm.

Ben shuffles further back, easing Callum into arousal with slow, intent strokes. He glances up into his eyes, and there it is again – that sickeningly familiar twist in his gut. Ben wonders how so many different emotions all trigger the same physical response in him. But despite the guilt, fear, adoration of all the little moments before, it’s _this_ one. The sight of Callum; hair tousled, eyes dark, mouth agape – it’s the sweetest twist he’s ever bared.

Ben sinks down on him, resting Callum’s length on his tongue as he runs wet friction down him. Callum lets out a choked gasp, closing his eyes as he breathes through hushed groans. Ben spreads his fingers over his protruding hipbones, rubbing circles with his thumbs, attempting to ease out the tension that remains troubling him.

He thinks back to the first time they did this. He thinks of Callum’s hands all over him, every inch of exposed flesh to be touched and held, constantly making sure that he _had_ him. Callum’s hands held his face while they kissed; his neck as he travelled lower; his hair as he went down. He didn’t let go of him once.

Ben comes up for a breath, and looks at Callum’s hands fisted in the bedsheet.

“Hey,” he says, just on the right side of hoarse. “You okay?”

Callum lifts his right hand up to wipe his own face. “Yeah, carry on.”

Ben sits up. “You don’t seem okay.”

Callum tries over and over again and again to block everything out of his mind. He blocks out the hopelessness. It doesn’t work. It makes him more hopeless.

Ben comes back up to properly regard Callum. Face-to-face, he comes back down to earth. Callum knows that his expression probably gives it away, and curses his puppy eyes with a heavy sigh. Ben shakes his head and touches their foreheads together.

“I’m going to stop now, okay?”

Callum nods. Ben gives him a small smile and rolls off him.

It’s not like his mind is racing like before. It’s not like he’s anxious, or paranoid, or even confused about his feelings. He’s just not like Ben. Cool, easy, detachable Ben. All the things that make him so charming also make him a huge liability. Whatever makes him kill a man, come back to a motel, then fuck said man’s son – it doesn’t feel the same as what Callum knows there is within him. They don’t get their kicks from the same shit. Callum thinks, maybe, he could learn how Ben works. How he really works.

Callum turns on his side, to look at Ben, and to give him more room. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Ben says genuinely.

Callum shuts his eyes, unable to bear reading his face. “I’m sorry for everything.”

He opens his eyes when he feels Ben’s hand on his cheek. “Don’t be.”

And there it is, like the flick of a switch. Ben will tell you that the side of him in the forest is the real Ben. Callum knows it’s this one.

He leans in. Ben pulls away, and Callum’s heart stops.

“That’s gonna taste like your dick.”

“Fuck sake,” Callum mutters, exhaling his tension and even falling into a slight smile, as he catches Ben’s lips in his own.

All it takes is that little bit of understanding. Callum forgets what he was ever trying to block out.


	5. the dream/the world

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for your patience

You know when you’ve just woken up from a really vivid dream, you don’t know what’s real or not? Your memories flood back to you – memories of seeing someone, saying something, thinking, _when did I do that? Why am I remembering it?_ And there’s a period of time – you’re never sure how long – before something in your head finally, well, wakes up with the rest of you.

That’s how this morning feels. Only Ben and Callum, they’ve been awake for a while.

“I guess sometimes if I brush my teeth too hard, they start to hurt.”

“Mine hurt if I bite into an apple too hard.”

Ben looks up at Callum from where his head rests on his chest. “Seriously?”

Callum had his eyes on him already. “Seriously.”

“You should get that looked at.”

How can he be sure this isn’t a dream? Everything is different, yet perfect. Callum doesn’t know where he is, not exactly. He doesn’t remember the name of this motel, but he remembers his dad being the receptionist. He remembers him saying something about his brother, then something in another language, then handing him the wrong keys, but they worked anyway. He remembers being alone. Then he remembers waking up, and not being alone, and his dad being dead.

And he remembers who did it, but it’s like a dream to him. “So that’s one,” he says. “The weirdest thing you can think of is that you’ve got sensitive teeth.”

Ben chuckles. “Sorry my body’s not a freak of nature like yours.”

It’s too good to be true. That’s what it is.

Ben cranes his head up and gently kisses Callum’s neck. It tickles for a moment before Ben lifts his lips apart, then closes them on his skin again. Callum’s hand finds the back of Ben’s head, brushing his fingers up his short, soft hair. Ben continues, applying a little more pressure when he gets to the crook of Callum’s neck and shoulder. All Callum does is sigh, and hold his head.

Ben pulls away from the soft nook of skin, gently running the pad of his thumb over it as he kisses lower, down to Callum’s chest. He moves to the centre, kisses his sternum. He moves to the left, kisses over his heart. Then, he carries on lower, lower, kissing his hipbone and the sunken skin beside it. His hand falls to Callum’s side, wrapping his fingers around his waist, before pulling back and looking up at him.

Callum’s hand finds Ben’s jaw, tilts him to face each other clearly. Ben reads him, and as Callum shuffles up to sit against the headboard, Ben comes up as well, holding himself above him.

“We don’t have to.”

Callum holds Ben’s wrist. Ben looks at their hands, then shifts his weight off it so he’s straddling Callum’s thighs. Callum’s other hand, it comes back to Ben’s jaw, and in no time he’s kissing him hard. Ben revels in it, raising his own hand parallel holding Callum’s jaw, spreading his fingers across his cheek. Callum curls his hand around Ben’s neck, pulling him deeper as Ben shortly gasps for air. He keeps his grasp firmly on Ben’s wrist until, after a few more building moments, he takes his hand and places it on his crotch.

Ben pulls away from the kiss but remains an inch from his face. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Callum breathes. “I want to.”

Ben doesn’t need to be told twice. He hastily palms him through his boxers, rousing Callum only getting easier. The difference is palpable – _literally_ palpable – and before he can even slide his hand beneath the waist, Callum places his own upon Ben and touches him right back.

_This_, Callum thinks, is what it’s meant to feel like. The kind of feeling that blocks out everything else going on in your mind, in the world. He kisses Ben again as they turn each other out, focussing on only one thing for the first time in weeks. Ben’s free hand cups Callum’s face and he doesn’t even think that maybe, this, here, is all he needs. He doesn’t think it. He just knows it.

He finishes first, burying his head in the crook of Ben’s neck and stuttering gasps of warm air onto his skin. Ben starts to sound different after a few more moments and just as Callum regains his thoughts, he presses his forehead to Ben’s to watch his face as he comes. And Callum knows what Ben can be like – boisterous, outlandish, just two of the wide array of words that come to mind – but the quietness and vulnerability that he keeps discovering in new ways just makes Callum wonder how many sides to him there actually is.

All he knows is he doesn’t have a favourite. He loves them all.

That is, until the post-sex side of Ben, sucks a stray drop of come from his fingertip and kisses Callum gently on the lips; and then he thinks, it might be this one.

Callum, he’s been scared of reality for a long time. Reality is lying, cheating, hiding. Reality is being surrounded by people that he cares about but don’t care about him. Reality is loud, and Callum is quiet.

The morning – or afternoon, by this point – somewhere in between waking up and now, stopped feeling like a dream. It’s a new, hazy reality. Dreamlike, but that’s it. The nice kind of real. The, _I’m lucky to be living this moment_, kind of real. 

But Callum’s too fragile for this. And as soon as his phone starts buzzing, it shatters.

Ben has never wanted to hear these next two words less in his life. “It’s Whitney.”

He swallows hard. They could never have stayed like this forever.

“Answer it,” he nods.

“I wasn’t asking your permission,” Callum mutters, sitting up and letting the bed sheet fall around his lap. There’s that bite in him, Ben notes, which deep down, he loves. A bit of front to him. But the guard goes up as well, as soon as he remembers it’s not just them in the world. The guard that tries to keep out anything too complicated. Anything disruptive. They’re well past that now, he thinks.

“Hi,” Callum answers.

“Hi,” Whitney says, almost sounding like she didn’t expect him to answer. “Is, um, everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Callum says. “Yeah, sorry, I know I said I’d be home by now. We just, um… you know, I just thought I should stay – stay with him for a bit longer. You know. My mate.”

“Yeah, of course,” Whitney’s voice crackles, and Callum thinks out of all the fights and misunderstandings the couple have endured, this is the worst conversation they’ve ever had. “Um… have you heard from your brother?”

Callum’s pulse picks up. “No?” he stutters.

“Oh,” she pauses, “I should probably let him tell you.”

“Tell me what?” Callum looks over his shoulder at Ben, who’s watching him with concern. Probably just concern for himself, Callum thinks. _Okay?_ Ben mouths. Callum turns away.

Whitney sighs down the line. “It’s your dad. Someone from his job has reported him missing.”

“Missing?” Callum is hit with a wave of dizziness. “Um, why?”

“I think he was at the pub, or something, then… well, went missing. Didn’t go to work, isn’t at his house.”

“Right,” Callum rubs his brow. “He’s probably just passed out somewhere. Slashed.”

Whitney hesitates. “Yeah, well. I thought Stuart would have told you.”

Callum nods. He doesn’t know what to say. “I can come home,” he tries. “If – if you think I should. For Stuart.”

“But your mate?”

“He’s fine,” Callum says quickly. “I’ll come home. See you soon.”

“Okay,” Whitney says, wavering. “Love you.”

He hangs up.

“He’s missing?”

“Can you just – “ Callum snaps, hand flying aimlessly up in the air, then finding his brow to rub harshly. “Can you just give me a moment to think, Ben? Can you?”

Ben stays still, let’s Callum sort through his thoughts.

“I mean, it’s not like that’s a fucking surprise to you, is it? Seeing as you’re the one who fucking killed him, and all.”

“I know,” Ben mumbles, “it’s not easy for me either, Callum.”

“Seemed easy enough last night,” Callum mutters, keeping his back to Ben.

“Yeah, cause it’s _him_,” Ben argues. “Cause it’s _you._”

Callum looks over his shoulder, and reads Ben face like the easiest book he’s ever laid eyes on. And he means it. He’s completely and utterly truthful. That - _that_ \- is why it’s so, _so_, fucking painful.

“I wish I didn’t feel like this,” he admits.

Ben looks at him with those scarily honest eyes. “Like what?”

“This,” Callum shakes his head with a sigh. “Why I didn’t just leave last night. Or this morning,” then he chokes on his own pitiful laugh; “or five minutes ago when she called.”

Something swells in Ben’s stomach. “We’ll go back together,” he tells him. “Face it. I got us in this mess, I’ll get us out.”

“No,” Callum says before he really thinks why; “no, it wasn’t just you. I’m every bit as messed up as you are in this.”

“No,” Ben objects again, bounding forward on the other side of the bedsheet and sliding a hand over Callum’s cheek from behind. Callum twists his torso, turns to face him properly. Ben holds his face more firmly and runs a thumb over his cheekbone. “No, you are _good_, Callum. You don’t have to be perfect every day. Underneath it all you can still be good. That’s what I –” he chokes on his own words, but swallows his pride. “That’s what I like in you. I like it so much.”

Callum’s eyes, his big, bright eyes, glaze over absently. They flicker all over Ben’s face, taking in every feature and in them, every thought he can’t verbalise. Callum drinks him in. Ben could still be talking and he wouldn’t really be listening. He doesn’t need to speak. He just knows they feel the same.

Callum, bringing himself back to the motel room, meekly whispers; “I like you too.”

It’s a lie, of course.

-

Home, now, has many different forms. Callum thinks about going home and he doesn’t think of Walford – or, rather, not this version of Walford. If everyone he knew and every tie to his current life was to disappear, that would be a version of home he could live in. As it stands, there’s too much here.

In the silent car journey home, Callum comes to the realisation that a shoddy motel room outside Hackney, a few square feet shared between him and a man he once considered to lie in the bottom of the barrel of Walford, is the most comfortable room he’s slept in for years. Even as the shadow of what they did hangs over them.

It is silent, until Ben, in his endless wisdom, says; “we’re gonna arrive together.”

Callum had noted this already. “I don’t care.”

Ben glances over at him. “Really?”

“Whitney’s not stupid,” Callum mutters, staring at his lap. “She’ll figure it out.”

“And… that’s what you want?”

Callum looks out the window, London expressways clear as they pass by at Ben’s casual over-limit speed. “Better for her to figure it out than for me to have to tell her.”

Ben, gaze more fixed on him than the road, shifts the gearstick and slows down a little. Callum looks ahead. _This is the right thing to do,_ he tells himself, over, and over, and over.

In slowing down, Ben decides to savour the journey. Another small space, shut off from the world, where the two of them can just be. As they hit a long clear stretch in the road, Ben picks his hand off the gear stick and rests it on top of Callum’s. Callum spreads his fingers slightly and lets Ben’s sit between them. _This is the right thing to do_, he tells himself. _This._

As they roll in under the railway bridge, into the square, he quashes his doubt. Even if it isn’t the right thing, it’s happening.

And as if the universe was agreeing with him, Whitney is walking right past the car lot as they approach it. And as the car judders to a halt, she sees them; her and Callum lock eyes, surplus of readable emotion between them, and after a couple of seconds, she walks away.

Ben breaks the silence. “Reckon she figured it out?”

“I don’t know,” Callum sighs. “I’ll have to tell her anyway.”

Ben nods, and doesn’t say anything more.

-

Stuart gets the call that his dad has been found dead. He tells Callum, then agrees to leave him alone. They don’t tell Whitney.

-

That night, Ben sneaks Callum in through the back door of the Beale house. He offers to sleep on the floor; Callum says no. Stay here. 

-

Callum sleeps until noon. Ben lies beside him, not stirring until he does.

It’s all over, he thinks. All the bad things. Now it’s just the two of them. And you can only fight against the world for so long, until it throws so much at you, you become immune, and then you can only live within it.

Callum rolls onto his side, awake but pretending he’s not. Ben watches the slow rising of his chest, then closes his eyes.

Not against the world. Within it.


End file.
